The Dark Tree
by Crazyeight
Summary: Memory of the darkness of ages past dims and shadows, forgotten, grow and take shape anew, becoming as a dark tree in the hearts of restless men. With the planting of a seed, change begins, and with it, the end of an age... The Fourth Age.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings.

The Dark Tree

A Lord of the Rings fanfic by: Crazyeight

Chapter: 01

The thought of the world spoke of winter, or would have to those who lived in the lands to the west as well as to the south. Calebar was a land of extremes, and rightly so, given its history, hemmed on three sides by a fortress wall of dark mountains. The north and south were divided in those extremes, much like the broken symbol of dark and light that came from the eastern lands far beyond the horizon of the Silver Roads, one swallowed and the other stained, a result of that same history. The shadow that dwelt there was no more, but the injuries it inflicted remained, and the land suffered, even in its prosperity.

Yet to the people who dwelt in the south along the lake of Núrnen, Calebar was home, and was well-earned. Paid for with their blood and toil. And toil they would, for spring had come at last; the fell-wind having at last lost the worst of its bite.

It was time to farm.

 _Not so for people such as myself, who stand at the watch,_ thought Niol, shrugging his scarf closer to his face to keep out the chill. The bite was gone, but his skin was pale and rough; sensitive to the cold even though it was considerably warmer. A telltale sign of the harshness of Calebar winters. His cloak, a dark grey affair, bore the sigil of a twisted coil of thorns, the image of the _Black Thorns_ guard that kept watch in the lands, shielding the citizens from the fell beasts that still haunted the _Ephel Dúath._ Though they were few in number, they remained a danger that needed to be taken seriously.

Darkness, it had long been said, since the days of Eldarion, a long-ago king of Gondor, could not simply be ignored just because it was small. After all, even the smallest of peoples could change the course of war if one had enough courage…or fear.

Pulling his cloak closer to himself, Niol paced the battlement of the tower, his eyes narrowing. In the distance, he thought he saw something shining. Metal that caught the light of the spring sun?

 _Whatever the case is, it's approaching swiftly._

"Edhor," he called out, his voice muffled by his scarf. "Could you come take a look at this?"

"Take a look at what?" came the response as a pair of boots scraped over a thick sheen of ice. Niol indicated the distant gleam, to which Edhor snorted.

"I doubt it's nothing to be concerned about. The _Dínauth_ don't like to come to this far south. Not during this time of the year at any rate. The cold reminds them too much of their graves."

"Still," Niol replied to his companion. "We should send out riders to scout it out and determine whether they are friend or foe. Ignoring ghost fires is _orc work_ after all."

Edhor sighed at the old saying – about as ancient as the stones of this fortress – and stepped away from his spot next to his companion, heading toward the stairs.

"Theor is not going to be happy," he grumbled, disappearing down the black well of the fortress. Niol shook his head, wishing that he were home rather than in this hellish place, keeping an eye out for the dead and other such spirits that came to inhabit Middle-Earth

A horn call broke upon the silence and Niol turned his face toward it. In the distance, the shining silver becoming more clear as it drew nearer, he spied a restless flag fluttering in the breeze, a field of snowy white, and a tree grew from its center, black, with long, reaching arms that stretched skyward, seeking that pale blue and the starry void that lay beyond it.

Gondor. Gondor had come to Calebar.

 **###**

 _"Open up in the name of the king!"_ came the cry from the wall, just as the gates began to rise. A large troop of horsemen wearing the winged helms and the shining armor of Gondor rode through, hooves clattering on the tunnel's hard ground before emerging from the other end. Reigning in their horses, the first of them swung off their steed, removing their helmet just as a dark, bearded man wearing thick, heavy furs approached with his entourage.

"And good day to you, my lord," the man bowed. "To what do I owe this visit from the lords of Gondor?"

"My name is Faranar," the man said. "Captain of Gondor. I would speak with the commander of Minas Amath."

"You have found him," came the reply, accompanied with a nod. "Theor of Amath, at your service."

Theor gave a bow and Faranar inclined his head.

"Very good. My men are in need of rest and resupply. I request lodgings for them and their mounts. I will speak to you in private on a matter of grave importance."

Theor's eyes met that of Faranar before nodding.

"See to it that it is done," he said before approaching Faranar. Gesturing with one hand, revealing a sheathed long sword strapped to his side. "If it's your will to let this be done, then we shall talk. In private, be it as it may in a place where the wind howls like the wargs."

"Close the doors to such wind then," Faranar said sternly, fixing the man with a hard look, one hand falling upon the hilt of his sword. "Let nothing pass into that place save our words and our two selves. I fear that even the snow may have ears."

Theor raised an eyebrow at this, but he led the captain into the depths of the fortress, wherein his chambers lay.

 _The sooner we get this over and done with, the better. For here in the greening land beneath the black, we struggle to purchase a peace and quiet from east and west and spirits all._

 **###**

A/N: I had this idea stewing around in my head for the past few months now. I don't know how often I'll get to this, as writing for Lord of the Rings is an entirely different field for me compared to my usual work and considerably more complex (so any assistance/tips/advice would be greatly appreciated), and ideas are still largely forming in my mind. I'm going to take my time with this one, and for now, the chapters are going to be short until I feel more comfortable working with this world.

The short of this is an exploration about what may have caused the Fourth Age of Middle-Earth to end and what sort of world we would see before that end. Being a novice in this area of fanfiction, this is probably old hat by now, but from what I've read it's generally been accepted that the story of the flood that permeates various religions is what put an end to the Fourth Age of the world. Given Tolkien's background, I'm going to draw on some aspects of the pre-flood period for inspiration. I hope my approach with this particular area makes sense and I don't butcher everything along the way.

Regarding some of the names I've used, _Calebar_ is Sindarin for 'Green Home', and is the name that was given to Southern Mordor as it recovers from Sauron's influence over the centuries. _Minas Amath_ means Tower of the Shield, something of a fortress within the area of Calebar and a recently built one at that, serving as one of the primary outposts for the watchers of the land that keep it safe. _Dínauth_ comes from the Sindarin words for silent ( _dínen_ ) and shape _(_ _auth)._

I hope that my new exploration works out well, and that you all enjoy my work and help me improve so that I can provide a worthwhile experience. :)

Until next time.

-Crazyeight


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings.

The Dark Tree

Chapter: 02

" _We are the spirit that never surrenders. We grow where the shadow cannot touch and where the eye never sees. We are the thorns that grow where nothing else can. We are indomitable and we swear to the light to always stand against the shadow."_

Niol, sighing with relief that his watch was finally over, passed by the initiation room on his way to his barracks, wherein the latest batch of _Morêg –_ Black Thorn – recruits as they took their oaths. Glancing into the assembly room briefly, he saw the multitude of dark cloaks that bore the sigil of Calebar, a twisted, gnarled bramble of grey thorns. Once, during the days of Mordor's dominance over the world and the power of the Dark Lord Sauron reigned supreme, this plant had been one of the few to live in that blasted landscape of fire and ash. Foot long were their thorns, and as sharp as any knife, some of which were barbed. The brambles were tough, being quite resilient to punishment out of necessity, given the land that they lived in. Anything that lived in the blasted land of the north needed to be hardy in addition to dangerous if they were to survive, and as such, many of these thorns were harvested by the _Morêg,_ preferring them for arrow points, where they served just as well.

Niol noted the irony in the use of Mordor's twisted abominations against its own creatures, as did many amongst the _Morêg._ Though the enslavement of their people were long ago, the wounds of those bitter whips ran as fresh now as they did then, only this time the Nurn had the means and desire to bite back.

 _What would these youths see during their time here?_ he wondered, almost pitying the new recruits. Service in the towers of _Minas Amath_ changed people. _Ephel Dúath_ had been cleansed centuries ago of orcs and other such filth during the reign of King Elessar, but the mountains remained cursed and dangerous to travel through. It was said that a shadow went between its peeks, spinning and weaving webs as it went to trap the unwary, such as had been said long ago in the Red Book of Westmarch, and there were other terrors as well. The _Dínauth_ that came down from beyond Mordor's mountains and from the stinking marshes for one, though Calebar was spared such horrors during the winter.

And there were, of course, still others. The world was full of them, light and dark. Niol had seen such fell creatures during his years of service in _Amath;_ seen what they did to men when cornered, and even when they were not. Such sights had an effect on a man. On _anyone_ truth be told, but more so for the inexperienced. Some of them, before this year was over, would be broken and hating the _Morêg_ even though they were responsible for the protection of their families.

Far better that they stayed in their homes, dry-farming the land. Let other people die or break in their place.

"Ho! Niol! Back from the frigid ice already?"

Turning, Niol found a stout, heavily bearded dwarf approaching him with a heavy gait, his bald head gleaming in the lantern light as his eyes shone like silver coins. Glyn, son of Glon, was an Erebor dwarf, though one or two generations down the trodden path since his people were forced to give up the lonely mountain, being no longer able to defend it against the encroachments of _Luel_ , that eastern kingdom that rose within five hundred years after the collapse of Sauron's empire. He knew little of the mansions of his fathers, save for the mountains that surrounded Calebar; the 'sick stone', as he called it, having become far more intimate than he or any dwarf cared to be. Niol often wondered how that effected the 'Dark Dwarves' to live in such places. Nonetheless, in spite of the diaspora of his people, many of whom fled into the mansions of Khazad-Dûm before they closed their doors to the world, did not appear to dim or twist his spirit, nor any of the dwarves who came to live within the lands of Calebar.

"Spring is on its way fortunately," Niol replied with a heart-felt laugh, clasping the dwarf on the shoulder. "So tell me, did you get a good look at the force of Wing-helms that rode in? There were quite a fair number of them, eh?"

"Ay," Glyn nodded. "I and many of the other lads have been trying to pump them for information, but they're all being tight lipped. Can't imagine what they came all the way out here for. The Rohirrim are in the _opposite_ direction. Their spears are needed there more than here."

"Perhaps they're looking to strike from an unexpected direction?" Niol suggested, though he didn't quite believe it himself, nor did his voice give that impression. Strike from Mordor? Might as well strike from Far Harad for all the good it would do, and it _still_ wouldn't make a difference. The horse lords of Rohan saw all that went on within their lands. It was said that one couldn't step foot on a blade of grass within their borders without them knowing.

Glyn waved dismissively at his suggestion. "Whatever the case may be, they're on the march. It can't be any special maneuver either. There's too few of them to do much more than be a small garrison. The most that I can figure is that they must have displeased the king in some manner and he decided to send them to the worst place he could think of; the armpit of Gondor."

Niol scowled slightly at that, but said nothing. Nurn was his home, and it did not sit well with him to hear anyone speak in such a manner concerning it. Still, he knew Glyn, and knew that it was a jest not made in malice, so he let it pass.

"Perhaps I can find out a little something," he said after a moment. "I still have some Old Toby left. Enough to warm the bones as well as the heart, and I am certain that someone in their ranks would be more than happy to cough up something with their smoke rings."

The dwarf's eyes perked up at this. "You _still_ have some Old Toby?!" he sputtered through his beard. "I don't know whether to bless you or strangle you! I…" His eyes shone with even greater intensity and he took a closer step toward his companion. "I don't suppose that there's enough to share. I can help, you see, with loosening your mark's tongue."

Niol's eyes twinkled in response and a wide smile drew upon his face. "I'm sure I can manage to split it up a little, but you have to promise to ask questions before you indulge too much in the weed. We both want answers, not unasked questions burning on our minds after all."

"Don't worry about that score," Glyn laughed. "Now how's about we set things in motion?"

 **###**

Theor and Faranar secluded themselves in Theor's study, closing and locking the doors and windows behind them before settling themselves down. Theor watched the other man as he withdrew a bottle of wine from his personal cabinet and took out two mugs of battered metal for them to drink from. The Gondor captain appeared to be admiring the room, his brown eyes appreciating the rows of books that decorated the walls and shelves.

"Like what you see?" Theor asked, setting the mugs down in front of him as he uncorked the bottle. Faranar nodded.

"They are all quite beautifully bound. I don't recognize the language on some of those titles though."

"You won't," Theor conceded, pouring into the first mug. "It may very well be against the king's law to own some of those works, but I don't care. I can't read them worth a damn. Might as well hang my fool neck for getting old."

"How many of them are from the east?" Faranar asked as Theor passed him his drink. "That is, if you don't mind my asking. Consider it an informal question, having nothing to do with our duties."

"Lots of them," Theor admitted. "We have traders and such come through from the foreign lands. Many bring books to read and such. We have some who _could_ read them if I gave them the opportunity, but I don't care to. I like the way they look, and it gives me an air of sophistication that makes a lasting impression on the kinds of people I sometimes have to deal with. People in the east appreciate the power of the written word it seems."

Pouring himself some wine into his own cup, he set the bottle down and lifted it, toasting the Gondor captain.

"To the king's health, may he long endure," he said before taking a deep drink. Faranar drummed his fingers on the mug thoughtfully for a moment before taking a tentative sip, and then, deciding that the drink wasn't half as bad as he thought it would be, took a deeper, more relaxed drink himself. Setting their mugs down, Faranar leaned forward.

"About why I am here…" he began, to which Theor choked and snorted.

"Was wondering when you were going to get around to that," he muttered. Faranar looked a bit irritated by this, but he continued on nonetheless.

"There is rumor of an ancient evil in these lands. An _úan –_ monster – of some sort that you and yours have been ignoring."

Theor looked at Faranar, his expression dim and annoyed.

"You tramped all the way from the west for _that,"_ he stated simply, his tone indicating what he thought of that. "If the good king has spears to spare for that, why isn't he doing anything about that which comes down from the marshes? Or whatever is hanging out around _Ephel Dúath?_ The war with Rohan going well?"

"That is king's business," Faranar replied. "But he has _special_ interest in the _úan._ He wants it, and he wants it dead and buried."

Theor leaned back in his chair, his expression becoming grim. "He would at that, I suppose. He would at that."

"Can I count on your support?"

Theor's eyes met Faranar's levelly. "You have the spears and the king's command. We have enough on our hands without inviting his wrath on our heads and homes. I'll give you supplies and guides to travel by, if it pleases you."

Faranar smiled and nodded. "That it does. The king thanks you for your assistance."

"Your men likely won't," Theor replied. "It sleeps. I say let it, but if the king wills it, then Calebar will do what must be done, even if it hurts. We are the thorns of Mordor after all."

"A most hardy folk," Faranar replied, saluting the man with his drink before taking another sip.

 **###**

A/N: I made some edits to the previous chapter regarding the 'Black Swords' to as they are referred to now, the _Morêg_ (Sindarin combination of the words 'black' with 'thorns' to represent one of the few bits of plant life that actually grew in Mordor) along with their sigil (from a yellow eye to a coil of thorns). Additionally, _Luel_ is based on the words _Luin_ (blue) and _Menel_ (heaven). It is an Easterling kingdom whose central core lies a bit past the lands of Rhûn that will feature a bit in this story.

3


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings.

The Dark Tree

Chapter: 03

Palo Tufs could honestly say that life was not turning out the way he thought it would. Having 'left' his burrow in Hobbiton before his coming of age to see the world, he had expected to have seen and done a great deal more than what he ended up doing.

His friends back in the lands of the Shire always said that he had grown up a bit odd, always listening to the stories about the Mad Baggins who left presents before disappearing in a puff of smoke and reading maps and keeping an ear out for whatever tales passed from the lips of strangers. He often admired the sword that hung on his grandfather's wall, a relic of a previous age where everything was said to be greater; a strange blade, damasked in flowing forms of red and gold, sheathed in black. A _Trolls Bane,_ he remembered it being called. His mother, old Obo, hated it, blaming it for putting all the queer thoughts in her wayward son's head, but his father, Banda though ambivalent, kept it hanging on the wall out of tradition, as it had been there for ages until, finally, in a fit of rage, she tried to get rid of it by essentially 'throwing it in the trash', thinking no one would notice.

At least until Pendo took it for his own and ran off into the wild, finally no longer willing to wait any longer.

He wanted to see the great mountains! See a dragon, slay a troll or some goblins… Tramp the old, forbidden paths of the world and find hidden treasures…

None of those things happened however. Goblins and trolls were long gone from the world; dragons hadn't crept out of any ancient holes or hoards in ages, and all the forbidden paths of the world had become a sight less forbidden. The world, it seemed, had turned grey.

 _Even the White Tower seems grey,_ he thought, padding through the corridors in preparation for his duties to the king – the great King Orcur, the Superior Sun that destroyed enemies and the burning light of the Tree. In one hand, he held a letter that had been delivered from messenger birds. News of the war in Rohan, he supposed, or perhaps from Calebar. Both were ever on the king's mind.

Palo hoped that the news was that of the good, for the good king had been in dark temperament of late. The rebellion of the Rohirrim especially weighed heavily upon his shoulders.

Passing by the Court of the Fountain, Palo paused to glance at the tree that lay within. Black was its bark, and long, spidery branches spread out in all directions, casting a deep shadow over the white stones of the court. Here and there, pink flowers blossomed, and a petal fell gracefully to the water of the fount. Palo stood there for a moment longer, transfixed by the scene, his hand straying to the hilt of his sword, until a voice called out to him from afar.

"Does the Guard of the Citadel hesitate in his duties by losing himself in daydreams? I wasn't aware that such lofty heights were given greater precedence than one's oath to the king."

Jumping, Palo turned to see a weathered man wearing a red robe and a kindly smile approaching him, hands clasped together. Blushing profusely, Palo bowed politely, recognizing him as one of the king's many advisers.

"Forgive me Lord Annae," he apologized. "I am still overwhelmed from being chosen to act as one of the fingers on the king's hand."

"As you are newly arrived to the guard, there is much to forgive," Annae chuckled warmly, clasping a companionable hand around the hobbit's shoulder and drawing him away from the court and the tree. "However, duties remain pressing, and it is not wise to keep the king waiting for long. You have been entrusted with a great duty after all, and are more than just one of his fingers. You are an _ear_ and an eye where such things are needed. Come, let us be gone and return to the king so that he might hear the news you bring."

Palo nodded, swallowing somewhat anxiously. However, despite resuming his course, he cast one last glance at the tree and its spindly, almost thorn-like appearance before blotting it out of his mind.

Not for the first time did Palo feel that he was out of place being assigned to the city guard. A good wrestler he had been back in Hobbiton, but only against opponents who stood at his height, and even though he was being trained in the way of the sword, his reach against opponents both taller and with longer steel left much to be desired. He was better suited fighting dwarves, orcs and children, but he would not draw against a child, and of orcs there were none to be had. Dwarves were no enemies either, though Khazad-dûm's doors were closed to the world now and admitted no one; closed for what was believed to be the final time.

 _I stand out too much,_ he mused. _Perhaps I should have stayed in Bree. I am recognized too readily to be of any use as the eyes and ears of the king, even if I help 'grow the spirits' of the people._

He sighed mentally. The only thing of note that he had – that the king felt made him worthy of joining his service and gave him the ability to mingle – was his ability to sing and tell stories. The people loved him a great deal for that, but his livery – the white beneath the black tree that was the symbol of the tower guard – often left people guarded around him.

"Does something trouble you, Palo?" Annae asked, noting the halfling's tense silence. Even for a hobbit, who were known for being quiet when they desired to be, Palo's was a touch unsettling.

"I was just thinking that I should have been a court jester,"he said aloud, thumbing his uniform. "But I guess that's not very…respectable for the king."

"Kings have a mind of steel and maps," Annae nodded. "And Orcur more so than others. Luel and all the kingdoms of the lands _Beneath Heaven…"_ His face twisted slightly as he spoke of that place far beyond Middle-Earth's boundaries from which rose the Luel kingdom. "…push against Gondor's borders. The Rohirrim's revolt could not have come at a worse time. Still, let us hope that we will be able to assuage them so that we may unite against the common foe."

Annae sighed, his eyes becoming distant and dispirited. "Not since the Third Age has Gondor been so beset with enemies, and not since the days of Isildur have we suffered a betrayal so bitter."

"I still don't understand why the Rohirrim have betrayed the king," Palo said as they rounded a corner and began to ascend the stairs to the Tower of Ecthelion. "What possible reason could they have to do so?"

Annae smiled grimly at the hobbit and patted his shoulder companionably.

"There is much going on with Luel and the west than you know, sir Tufs. Perhaps today shall illuminate you."

They entered the king's court within short order, and Palo saw the king sitting upon his throne. King Orcur, the sun of the kingdom, was fair of skin and had a strong, almost proud jaw that matched his powerful frame. His eyes were deep and full of thought of the world and all that dwelt within it, and a main of dark hair cascaded down to his shoulders. He was, for all intents and purposes, almost the spitting image of King Elessar, save for his larger appearance and darker hair, and although the blood of Numenor was much diluted and would never be as great as it had been with Elessar when Gondor reunited the land, it had been strengthened.

Strengthened, it was said, but it was doubtful if it had been for the better, as the union that birthed him had been of similar vein as that with the long-ago Queen Berúthiel of the Black Numenorians – a loveless affair made during war. Still, it was said that Orcur was a fair ruler, and naught else could be said to be objectionable, save for one half of his bloodline, who had long since been exiled.

Palo strode forth as the king sat at his table, eating his dinner, and presented him with the letter. Taking it, Orcur broke the seal and read its contents, his expression grim.

"What news, my lord?" Annae asked, coming abreast to the young hobbit, folding his arms behind his back.

"None that is of the good," Orcur replied, setting the letter down. "The Rohirrim have retaken the Eastfold through a flanking maneuver and even now are pursuing our forces toward the Gap of Rohan."

"The narrowness there should be able to even out the battle, should it not?" Annae asked. "They cannot use their cavalry as readily as they would out in the more open plains."

"No, but it is unlikely that they will follow further into the gap. The horse lords are no fools and they are content with keeping the land of their home, not conquering an empire like the Luel. It is why they have maintained their rebellion for so long. We have not the means to face them on equal ground." Wiping his mouth with his napkin, he stood up, darkness crossing his features.

"Cursed Luinír. We should never have allowed them to open temples amongst the Rohirrim…"

"They aided with the plague," Annae pointed out, drawing his hands to his front and folding them together.

"I am not a child who is unlearned in my lore, _Wind Lord!"_ Orcur replied angrily before a look of guilt and distaste crushed his face. Mastering himself, he turned toward the two and took a deep breath.

"I apologize," he said. "The counts of defeat continue to pile on my mind. I had thought that when we captured Snowbourn that victory was within our grasp. Edoras was within _arm's reach!_ If not for the woman…"

Sighing heavily, he took up the letter and considered its contents again.

"Well… What's done is done. I must convene with my captains on how to settle this matter." Turning to Palos, he smiled warmly, though his lips didn't touch his eyes.

"Thank you, young master, for your continued service. I will call upon you later for tale and song."

"As you please, my lord," Palo replied, bowing once more.

3


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings.

The Dark Tree

Chapter: 04

There was a violent clash that echoed upon the air like thunder while two rivers of steel, shining like lightning, slammed into each other with ferocious force. Shields were splintered and spears broke, and there was many a scream of animal and rider alike as the field became awash with red and silver.

Such was the way of war between men, no matter where they hailed from, Rohan, Gondor or Luin.

Eoryh narrowed her eyes as she gripped her sword, her nostrils flaring as she took deep, steady breaths to calm herself as her forces broke away and reformed, her blue eyes scanning the opposing forces, like metal beetles as they did likewise. Her horse pranced nervously, but she pulled the reigns and clucked at it, reminding the animal, Flight Foot, of his duty.

Glancing to her side, she saw a man wearing heavily padded leather over a bright blue, silken shirt. A shining steel sword, blazing with an eerie light of its own above a bronze hand guard – or what could be called a guard, as it swept up toward the blade like a thin, flat, but stylized cup that left little room for defense should a blade slide down. Eoryh wasn't worried however, as, despite her initial concerns about the weapon, the warrior who wielded it almost seemed to have little need for such protection.

After what felt like an eternity, she raised her sword and gave a great shout, and at once she and her forces charged once more, pressing against the Gondor forces before they could properly reorganize themselves.

They had been at this for days now, with little rest, chasing and crashing into the Gondor army over and over, pushing them further and further back toward the Gap of Rohan, right up to the border of the Watchwood, within which lay the Treegarth of Orthanc. Here it was that Gondor stubbornly refused to give ground and indeed went on the counter attack, whether it was because of old stories of the forest that now occupied the land once known as Isengard Eoryh didn't know. All that mattered was that here was her enemy – the enemy of the Mark – and she would have them out and gone from the lands of her forefathers…or see them _all_ dead.

All rational thought briefly vanished as the two armies collided once more in a shock of sword and spear, and Eoryh felt her sword shiver and shatter under the violence of the battle. She continued on regardless, using the now half-sword to defend herself while hacking back with the now pointless tip, the edge still good enough for the time being. After another eternity, the two armies pulled back, ragged and bloodied. Gasping and tasting copper from having bitten the inside of her cheek, she spat blood to the side, hefting her broken weapon.

"I salute Gondor for producing such soldiers," spoke up the sky-clad warrior as his horse approached her, his sword gleaming the same azure light as his shirt. "There are many armies in the east that would have broken and fled by this point."

Eoryh turned to the man and gave a harsh, winter-swept smile. Beneath his horned helm, she saw an aged, kindly face with thin eyes and faint whispers of white creeping along his eyebrows. "I told you they would not be broken so easily," she said. "They fought the Dark Lord Sauron for centuries. Even at their weakest, they do not go down easily."

The man nodded grimly before turning his attention back to the shining knights as they remobilized. Raising his gleaming sword, he held it in front of him for a moment before sweeping it out toward the opposing army, offering them his respect for their valor in battle.

"The Seven Days, this shall be known as when I return to my lands to record this day," he said. "And there shall be many a song about it, and the golden-haired Queen who led her people against so worthy a foe."

His expression softened in sorrow as he tugged on the reigns of his horse. "It is a pity that the times have made the two of you such enemies. Even more of a pity that we should slay so many young and honorable men this day, who are only guilty of doing their duty to their lord."

Eoryh didn't respond to that. She couldn't. Inside she seethed and her fury _writhed_ like a coiled serpent, eager to strike. There would be blood, and it would run hot upon the ground, payment to Gondor and all of Rohan's enemies. Raising her broken sword once more, she swung it around to rally her troops and gave a fearsome battle cry. There was a lowering of spears and a hefting of swords and axes.

Horns were blown, and the Rohirrim charged once more into the surviving spears of Gondor.

 **###**

The battle didn't quite end at the setting of the seventh day, so there would be no songs to be had about it. Gondor survived once more, but they were pinned down with a river, a forest, and the whole northern spine of the Misty Mountains at their backs. At the very least, they used the Fords of Isen to their advantage, and the closer quarters of the mountains prevented adequate maneuvering.

Eoryh grimaced as she gazed at the map of their battlefield. The plan, once it became clear that Gondor wasn't simply going to slip through the Gap of Rohan and retreat from there, was to hit them hard and drive them into the mountains like a hammer against an anvil. As horse lords, they had vastly more experience than the mounted Gondor knights at cavalry warfare, yet they not only held their lines, they managed to temporarily stabilize their situation.

She turned up to her marshals and expressed as much.

"It might not matter as much if they can hold us off for much longer," Éowynd, her Chief Marshal said. "They have less than a thousand men left to fight with, and are exhausted. We have twice their number and have more on the way to reinforce us. They have as good as lost this battle."

"Still," Eoryh replied. "We can no longer outflank them and the terrain now hinders our movements. If they hold us here for too long, we won't be able to respond as quickly should Gondor set forth with another army. And they will, let us not make any mistake about that."

Éowynd shifted uneasily, his eyes flickering over to her and, behind her, seated in a corner with his arms over his chest, the man wearing blue silk. She could read the uncertainty in her eyes. Times were strange indeed for all of them; the queen of Rohan riding into battle among the men, and Éowynd, her aged uncle, by way of oath, had to stand by against all his instincts to let his niece fight unhindered and be involved with every battle. She was trained, yes – the women of Rohan learned the hard way that living by the sword was preferable to dying helplessly by them – and trained by her uncle himself, yet to him it was hard to see her in the role of warrior queen and not his niece. The young, gold-haired girl who chased her brothers – now all dead – and playing at swords with them.

The innocence of those days were so long ago, and long buried with her dead family; brothers, sisters, father and mother all.

"Let us withdraw to the Westfold then; give them an out," Éowynd said. "They are broken enough as it is and will likely fight to the last man by this point." He threaded a hand through his greying beard. "Cornered men are no different from any animal, and they will likely bloody us before the end. It's not the victory you want, but given the situation…"

"There's no shame in retreating to continue the fight or to save lives." Eoryh's fingers bit into her palms, remembering her lessons, glowering back down at the map before nodding reluctantly. She had hoped to send a message to Gondor; as blunt a message as possible with regards as to how welcome they were in the Riddermark. It seemed however that fortune conspired against her and this was the best she could do in the meantime. "Very well. How rested are the troops?"

"They have been fighting hard for the last few days," one of her marshals replied. "But they'll fight or ride wherever the queen wills it."

Eoryh closed her eyes for a moment and gave a heavy sigh. Her soldiers were no doubt as exhausted as the Gondor men, but she wanted this battle to end as quickly as possible.

"Get everyone ready to move out," she said. "And send to our reinforcements. They are to watch the enemy and inform me as to their movements, but _not_ engage them unless they enter deeper into the Riddermark again. Let us hope that they learn their lesson and fall back to their homes."

Drawing back, she dismissed her council and they all filed out, save for Éowynd and the silk-clad man. Sensing that the two needed some privacy, the easterner got to his feet and wordlessly left the tent.

"I know what you're going to say," Eoryh said, pressing her knuckles onto the map. "You want me to get some rest. You want me to stand aside so you can handle the war from here."

"I am not so easy to read as that," Éowynd replied with a grim smile. "I fear for you during battle; war is men's work after all, but you have proven your place here. Nonetheless, in my eyes you are still my niece. The same girl who would dress her dolls up with sticks and bark and pretend they were knights before going off on some wild adventure." Approaching her, he lay a hand on her shoulder. "But you should rest. That is not advice to you because you are a woman or my niece. It is the advice I would give to anyone, and have had it for myself. King, queen, marshal or captain; if you are as busy fighting sleep as you are the enemy, you _will_ make bad decisions."

"Is this a bad one then?" Eoryh asked, pulling away from her uncle. "We have reinforcements coming and we still outnumber the enemy. An enemy that is certain to send more soldiers in the future." She grimaced before dropping her face into one hand, shoulders shaking as she wept lightly. "I had not wanted my reign to be stained with such a bloodbath, but Gondor forced my hand when they took my family. Breakers of peace and betrayers of friendship I named them! They have become touched by the shadow and only the Luin stood by us in our hour of need!"

Éowynd's expression softened at her weary sorry. Taking up the blanket of her bedroll, he swept it about her.

"It will take some time to get the army ready to move out. Get what rest you can. I will wake you when it is time to go."

Patting his niece's shoulder, Éowynd turned and exited the tent, leaving Eoryh alone to grieve for old wounds and losses.

 **###**

The word had gone out amongst the Morêg. There was to be an assembly for a deploying of forces in joint action with the Gondor soldiers. There were only thirty of them, so the force that would accompany them would be of similar size to act as guides and support.

Niol and Glyn arrived in short order, both of their eyes thoughtful. They hadn't had nearly as much time as they would have liked to pump the Gondor soldier they picked out for information, but they did get a bit of what they suspected their commander would tell them.

"Úan hunting," Glyn muttered into his beard, smoking at his pipe as their boots tromped on the stone floor of the fortress. "And for the one around these parts. They might as well be wasting their spears chasing fairy tales. I thought there was a war afoot."

"They may very well have their reasons," Niol said, breathing into his hands to warm them up. "Monsters still live in the world after all."

"We have monsters aplenty, I'm not disputing that," Glyn grumbled, drawing a particularly deep breath on his pipe before letting out a smoke ring. With a flick of his fingers, he set it scurrying on ahead through the air, eventually finding a home over the head of a young man as he passed by. Niol chuckled dryly, trying not to draw attention to it. It looked far too much like the paintings he saw of late that came from the west; images of heavenly beings with halos of golden light over their heads. "All I'm saying is, this is an odd one to chase after. Cirith Gorgor has resisted _every_ attempt at clearing out shadow spawn for centuries, and that's just for _starters!"_

He turned a glowering eye up at Niol. "We are hemmed in by Úan, and the White Tower seeks to fight a sparrow in a pit of snakes. We can take care of it ourselves if we thought it a large enough problem."

"Have I ever said that you have such a brilliant way of describing your thoughts on others?" Niol said as they neared the assembly hall.

"Many times," Glyn replied. "Though never as though it were to be admired."

"Only because walls and ice have ears," Niol returned, passing through the gates into the assembly hall. It was a large room, easily the largest in the fortress next to the mess hall, with a curved, white ceiling held up by long pillars of white, cold-looking, roughly hewn rock. Glancing to the side, he saw a man from Gondor, bearded with long hair tied back into a horse-tail, looking as though he didn't like what he saw. He couldn't blame him. The stories he heard of Gondor and from empires before it spoke of castles of great beauty of shining stone and polished marble. Silver and gold as far as the eye could see. Minus Amath had none of these things, and only the older fortresses that had once belonged to Sauron's empire looked more dreary.

Everything about Calebar spoke of the past corruption of Mordor

 _At least we aren't like those poor souls in the north, manning those haunted fortresses…_ He shuddered, thinking especially about those men stationed at the Battle Plains and the Dead Marshes to ward the lands against the sleeping dead and their flickering candles.

From the tell of it, whenever winter came and made the dead rise from their graves, it was the only time that Orcs, Elves and Men fought together as one, such was the state of their being in that dreadful land.

"Well," Glyn continued. "I care not if the walls and ice have ears. I still say hunting this particular Úan is a waste of our time."

From out of the corner of his eye, Niol saw the Gondor soldier behind them scowl. Pushing away from the wall he was leaning on, he made his way over to them. Gesturing to his companion, Niol turned to greet the newcomer.

"Hail," Niol greeted stiffly with a nod of his head before glancing at Glyn, who simply frowned at the other man, puffing out a smoke ring.

"Hail," the dwarf said gruffly. "How might you be?"

"Well enough, for a first time visiting your land," the man replied. "Although you would do well to head your companion's advice, for the wall did indeed have ears, and they were mine."

"Is that a fact?" Glyn puffed. "In that case, I'll get right to it. I wasn't aware that it was a crime to discuss one's opinions on matters of our doings within our own land."

"It is the king's command," the man replied evenly, "that this thing be done, regardless of whether we think it to be worth our time and our sweat."

"He said no such thing about not doing his part," Niol interceded, hoping to calm the situation. This man… He had a certain bearing about him that spoke of authority. The captain of Gondor? He wasn't sure. "Forgive my companion. He often speaks his mind without concern, and we allow him that liberty."

The Gondor man frowned at Niol. He was a full foot taller, as was expected of men of such stature, and carried himself proudly. Niol felt as though he were looking at a man from out of song and tale of old Númenor, as such things often spoke of towering men who held power in every gesture and word. It occurred to him that this man was someone used to wielding power.

Yet, looking into his dark eyes, he saw a buried frustration; an old fire caged in some hidden dungeon from very long ago.

"Take care of your companion and who he speaks his mind around," he said finally, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword. Niol's gaze followed it and his eyes widened at the sight of a silver ring with twin serpents, one devouring while the other supported a crown of golden flours.

Even as far as Calebar, the Ring of Barahir was well known. This man was a prince of Gondor.

"Whispers of shadow destroy just as much as the armies of Gondor's enemies," the man continued, stepping away. "We must _all_ take care to support Gondor in its hour of need."

"Quite the cheery fellow," Glyn grumbled as the man returned to the wall, earning him a sharp glare.

"His is a wall with sharp ears," Niol warned, placing a hand around his comrade and steering him away. "Things must be serious indeed if one of the three princes of Gondor is here. Perhaps there is more to our minor Úan than we know of."

Before Glyn could reply, a gong was sounded, Theor's signal to all entering to hurry up and be silent. The briefing was about to start.

5


End file.
